


I think I'm falling (I'm falling for you)

by Only_angel_28



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Banter, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bicycles, Boys Kissing, Disaster Gay Louis, First Meetings, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting to Know Each Other, Harry speaks french at one point?, Harry wears his multi-colored wind breaker, I Don't Even Know, I don't know if this should be tagged 'humor', I'm so sorry, Kissing in the Rain, Louis has a lip ring, M/M, Meet-Cute, Punk Louis, Rain, Skateboarder Louis Tomlinson, Skateboarding, Strangers to Lovers, Tea, but I hope it's funny and cute, these are very important plot points, this is the most ridiculous and indulgent thing I've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 10:17:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19017898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_angel_28/pseuds/Only_angel_28
Summary: Louis is a disaster gay on a skateboard. Harry is a beautiful, quirky stranger on a bicycle. Their first encounter really makes a splash.





	I think I'm falling (I'm falling for you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [frogfond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frogfond/gifts).



> This is just a silly self-indulgent little thing inspired by [this video](https://beau-soleil-louis.tumblr.com/post/184185296911), and the fact that Sherri and I have to make absolutely everything about Louis and Harry. She's the one who said "Louis is the guy on the skateboard and Harry is the one on the bicycle," so you can ~~blame~~ thank her for this! Sherri, my darling I hope you love this! Thanks for being such a wonderful friend to me!
> 
> I'm on tumblr @beau-soleil-louis if you want to come say hi :)

<<>>

Three weeks. It’s taken Louis three whole weeks to learn how to properly do a kick flip. He’s been skateboarding for far longer than that, but, admittedly, he does so more for the aesthetics of it. Sue him, he likes the way he looks in the unofficial “uniform” of skin-tight ripped jeans and old band t-shirts turned tanks tops with loose necklines and gaping arm holes. He also has an (over)abundance of jackets – denim, leather, you name it. He’s a walking gay stereotype in that he can never seem to have enough outerwear. His lip ring is just the icing on the metaphorical cake. He looks the part, and now he wants to develop the skills to back it up.

To this end, Louis has spent the past three Sundays meeting up with his mate, Zayn, at the skate park just around the corner from their university, where Zayn has diligently and patiently attempted to help Louis improve his “street cred” on his skateboard. (Zayn has also rolled his eyes every time Louis refers to it as such, but Louis has decidedly ignored him, proud as he is of his own cleverness.) 

Just like Zayn is apparently too cool for Louis’ sense of humor, he’s also evidently too cool to skateboard in the rain, because when Louis wakes up on a drizzly Sunday morning and texts Zayn to ask if they’re still on for their weekly grind session (another brilliant pun, thank you very much) Zayn responds with an oh so emphatic: _Nah, bro. This rain can get fucked._  

So it seems Louis is on his own. No matter. He’s spent the last few weeks honing his skills enough to practice without Zayn’s help. He isn’t going to let a little rain stop him, he is an Englishman after all. 

He sighs, lamenting the fact that he has to cover up his black _skate tough_ tank with a hoodie due to the chilly weather. It does wonders for his collarbones, truly, and Louis isn’t above using that to his benefit. Maybe he’ll take advantage of Zayn’s absence and try to pull a cute boy from the skate park. It’s been awhile since he’s been out on a date with anyone, but Louis has pretty much always considered himself to be a romantic. He wants nothing more than to find the love of his life, settle down, and have a whole army of little ones. Perhaps it’s a strange aspiration for a twenty-two year old, but, as far as Louis is concerned, being normal is vastly overrated. 

After quickly stuffing his unruly fringe under a maroon knit beanie and pulling his hood up over his head, he slips his feet into his worn old vans and sets off, skateboard tucked securely under his arm. 

It takes all of two minutes for him to understand why Zayn had bailed. He’s fucking miserable. It isn’t raining terribly hard, just a light misting, but the wind is something he hadn’t planned to contend with. It seems to be blowing directly into his face no matter which direction he turns, meaning visibility is shit. He decides to forgo the skate park altogether and instead cruise over to his favorite coffee shop for a nice hot cuppa and maybe one of those insane double chocolate fudge muffins he has been craving for days on end.

 _The French Press_ sits on the corner at the very end of a block of high street shops, boasting a handsome brick façade and a picturesque little terrace that wraps around the side of the building. It’s got the kind of indie industrial vibe one would expect for a neighborhood crawling with young professionals and students, close as it is to the university, and Louis adores it for its ivy-covered terrace and the lovely view of the canal just across the way. The outdoor seating is tucked under an awning that provides shade on the rare occasion that the English sun makes an appearance, but he figures it will be sufficient enough to block the light rain today as well. There’s just something appealing about sitting outside, enjoying a steaming cup of tea with the rain lending a comforting soundtrack in the background. 

He’s rounding a corner near the shop, ear buds in, contentedly humming along to a DMAs song on his Spotify playlist, when a bright blur of color whooshes past him from the opposite direction, nearly knocking him on his arse. Thankfully, Louis has been working on his balance, and he’s able to steady himself without over-correcting. He falters a bit, but overall manages to stay upright. 

The blur of color turns out to be a bloke on a bicycle who’s wearing a bright-ass windbreaker – one of those little Nike color-blocked numbers that resembles the parachutes children play with in primary school. He turns his head around to look at Louis with a grimace, mouthing the words _I’m sorry_ in a truly over the top sheepish manner. He has a beanie on, the hood of his windbreaker pulled up over the top of it, and he’s sporting a pair of big black headphones which are— _what the fuck?_ —on the _outside_ of his hood instead of underneath it. Louis has so many questions. 

Despite the quirky headgear and garish choice of workout attire, Louis has to admit that bicycle boy is stunning. He barely got a peek at his face, but it was enough for Louis to register a strong, chiseled jaw line, sweetly flushed cheeks, and the kind of lips that could easily make one forget their own name. _Jesus_. He’s fit too, Louis notices as he watches the boy’s perky little arse—jammed into a pair of tight, black athletic leggings—as he pedals off. 

Louis lets out a heavy sigh, and uses the back of his wrist to wipe away the raindrops that have accumulated on his brow whilst he has been staring longingly after his parachute-wearing potential paramour. They could have had the most epic love story the world has ever seen. Okay, maybe he’s being a touch dramatic. _God_ , he really needs to get himself a boyfriend. 

In an attempt to cheer up and prove that he isn’t entirely hopeless (disastrous love life be damned) Louis decides this would be a brilliant opportunity to whip out his new move. This is what he’s been practicing for. This is his _moment_. He _can_ do a kick flip, and if he times it right, bicycle boy will be in the perfect position to have an unobstructed view as he turns the corner up ahead and continues riding parallel to the canal. 

Louis bends his knees in preparation, shifting his weight slightly to his back foot as he psyches himself up. As it turns out, Louis can _not_ do a kick flip—at least not in the rain when his vans are wet, and his grip is sub par, and he’s still swooning a bit from his run in with bicycle boy—because as soon as he leans back to pop his board up, he knows he’s messed up and it’s all about to go terribly, horribly wrong. Regrettably, at this point there’s nothing he can do to stop the inevitable. 

His foot slips, causing him to muck up the rotation of his board, and instead of landing on it after he kicks it, he sort of just…propels it forward. Louis falls, landing on his arse on the wet pavement, and watches in utter horror as his board launches itself across the road with impressive velocity like some sort of flying projectile of doom. 

His timing had indeed been impeccable, because there’s bicycle boy, a look of adorably disgruntled concentration on his face as he rounds the corner just when Louis had expected him to, only now he’s on a collision course with Louis’ errant skateboard. 

Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh _no_.

Louis watches it all unfold in heart-stopping fashion from his position sprawled out on the pavement, but it’s too late for him to do anything but call out a frantic warning. He means to say something to the effect of, ‘ _Hey, look out!’_ But of course, in his panicked state, what comes out of his mouth is the garbled equivalent of a verbal key smash.

 _How utterly humiliating_.

Fortunately, bicycle boy doesn’t seem to hear his embarrassing flub. Not so fortunately, that’s because he’s a little preoccupied with Louis’ rogue skateboard getting caught between his wheels, causing him to swerve wildly before being catapulted off his bicycle and into the canal with a panicked yelp.

 _Fuck!_ What if he doesn’t know how to swim? What if Louis has just inadvertently murdered the fittest boy he’s ever seen with his skateboard? He’s never really thought of it as a lethal weapon before, even taking into account the numerous times he himself has fallen off it, but, apparently, it has just been waiting for the right victim to come along. And if, by some unprecedented stroke of luck, it turns out that he didn’t actually murder bicycle boy, how then will Louis ever live this down? The shame alone will surely take _years_ to recover from, and that’s assuming he ever recovers at all.

With a surge of adrenaline, he hauls himself up to his feet, wincing as his elbow smarts with a stinging pain (he must have scraped it when he fell) and sprints toward the edge of the pavement that lines the canal. They should really consider a guardrail for safety, he muses as he drops to his knees at the water’s edge, desperately searching for any sign of poor, unfortunate bicycle boy. Thankfully, the bright, almost neon, colors of his windbreaker make him quite easy to spot, and Louis immediately lies down flat on his stomach and reaches out a hand to help pull him back up.

It takes a couple different attempts before they figure out the best rescue strategy (things made vastly more difficult by the fact that bicycle boy is apparently a bit of a flail-er) but eventually, after much grunting and sputtering and flailing, they find a position that works for them and Louis manages to heave him up onto the pavement, noodle limbs and all.

He hadn’t given much thought to the logistics of it beyond _get this boy out of the water before he fucking drowns,_ but he really, _really_ should have because his particular method of extraction has the unfortunate (fortunate?) effect of bicycle boy landing directly on top of him.

They stay like that, in suspended animation, both breathing heavily, lips parted and mouths barely centimeters apart, for an unquantifiable amount of time. Louis looks up into the face of the unfortunate victim of his clumsiness and _oh Jesus, his eyes_. Who allowed him to have eyes like that? They’re the loveliest pale green shade, like a double scoop of sweet mint chocolate chip ice cream (which just so happens to be Louis’ favorite flavor, funny that).

The heavens part, music swells in Louis’ ears as a voice joins in to soulfully croon, “ _hey beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful angel_ …” and he starts to wonder if maybe he hit his head earlier and just didn’t realize until now due to shock, or, like, the adrenaline from rescuing bicycle boy or something. That’s a thing that can happen, he’s pretty sure. Either that or this boy is just so stunning that Louis is hearing the R&B version of a hallelujah chorus simply from looking into his eyes. _Fuck_ , he really has lost it.

The source of the music becomes clear a moment later when he realizes that he still has his ear buds in, and his Spotify playlist is still going strong with Bazzi’s _Beautiful_. He quickly tears the buds out of his ears and lets them dangle from the neckline of his tank where he’d looped the cord through his shirt.

Dazed, he forgets himself completely and just _stares_. Like an absolute donut. And bicycle boy stares right back, a hint of a smirk twisting his lips— _fuck_ , his lips! If his eyes are mint chocolate chip, then his lips are red velvet. They look positively luscious – wet and plush and sinful and _wet_. Wet from the canal, wet from the rain that’s still falling around them. Fuck, the water droplets are dripping off the curved bow of his upper lip and down onto Louis’ face. _God_. What kind of romantic comedy bullshit is this?

It’s that thought that finally jars Louis back to reality, the series of unfortunate events that had put them in this very compromising position replaying in his mind like some horrifying comedy gag reel.

“Oh my god,” he gasps, jerking upwards so quickly he nearly head-butts the poor boy in the face. And wouldn’t that just be fucking perfect, adding insult to injury. Or would it be injury to insult? Unimportant. “I’m _so_ fucking sorry! Are you okay? Sorry!”

The boy sits up and scoots backwards until they’re no longer touching, but remains close enough that Louis can still smell his skin – rainwater and sweat and a hint of something floral underneath, rose perhaps? He removes his own headphones (which look quite expensive, hopefully they’re fancy enough to be waterproof, because Louis surely can’t afford to replace them) and drops his chin to his chest, appearing to take stock of his body as he pats down his torso with both hands. He looks back up at Louis with a cheeky smile curving his lips. 

“Physically I’m fine, emotionally I’m bruised.” 

“Don’t be!” Louis practically shrieks, causing the boy to flinch ever so slightly. 

Right Casanova, Louis is. He mentally rolls his eyes at how neurotic he’s being, and makes a conscious effort to relax before he attempts to speak again. “I mean, it was my fault, yeah? I’m the one who should be embarrassed. I _am_ embarrassed. And sorry. _So very sorry_. Did I mention that?” 

Bicycle boy’s grin widens considerably, revealing a dimple— _a fucking dimple!_ —deeper than the canal from which Louis just pulled him. “Maybe once or twice,” he allows with a coy shrug. 

“Shit, this is awful,” Louis groans. “You’re soaked! Are you sure you aren’t hurt? I’m no expert, but me mum’s a nurse, so I could probably…erm, like, assess your injuries or something.” 

“No harm done, mate. Really.” 

“At least let me buy you a cuppa? A coffee? Here, actually, why don’t you just take my wallet—” 

“No, no,” the boy laughs, waving his hands in an endearingly clumsy manner as Louis makes to extract his wallet from the back pocket of his sodden jeans. “You better hold on to that. You’re gonna need it if you’re serious about that cuppa.” 

He looks to Louis hopefully, eyes wide and earnest, lower lip drawn between his teeth. 

Louis is a bit dumbfounded for a moment, his attention caught on perhaps the strongest, most masculine-looking pair of hands he has ever laid eyes on, and where the boy’s nails are neatly painted with a coat of delicate, iridescent pink varnish. It’s a wonderful juxtaposition that has Louis’ chest filling with warmth and affection for the relative stranger in front of him. He’s more certain than ever that this quirky boy might just be his soulmate. Between the androgenic beauty of his hands and bright luminosity of his eyes, Louis has to physically shake himself before he’s able to respond. 

“Oh,” he says dazedly, a little slow on the uptake with his mind still in a state of awe. “Absolutely! _Yes_. Please, it’s the least I can do.” 

The boy smiles at that, apparently charmed by Louis’ impressive display of dumbass-ery. “I’m Harry by the way. I think surviving a near death experience together warrants us being on a first name basis, don’t you agree?” 

Harry— _wonderful name, that_ —is clearly joking, teasing even, but Louis immediately cringes anyway. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Sorry. Lovely name, is it French?” 

Louis giggles—honest-to-god _giggles_ —and bites his lip, playing with his piercing. It’s a nervous habit, and apparently a flirtatious one too if the way it draws Harry’s gaze is any indication. His eyes spark with what Louis perceives as a little more than casual interest, and Louis can hardly believe his luck. Harry’s eyes flit back up to his expectantly, and _oh right_ , he’s still waiting on an answer to his question. 

“No, um, it’s Louis actually.” 

“Mmm, so I was right about the French bit then?” 

“Yeah, it’s, um, yeah.” _Eloquent_. Louis is a fucking idiot. 

Harry doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does then he certainly doesn’t seem to mind. He just continues to beam at Louis with that devastatingly gorgeous mouth of his. And the dimple! There are two of them apparently – one deeper than the other, but both equally devastating. 

“ _Enchanté, Louis_ ,” he replies, and _what the ever loving fuck?_ French? This perfect specimen of male beauty also just so happens to speak French? 

“You speak French?” Louis blurts out with absolutely no finesse whatsoever. 

“Not really,” Harry admits with a self-deprecating shrug, visibly flushing under Louis’ attention. _God, he’s sweet_. “I really only know how to introduce myself, say ‘nice to meet you,’ and one other phrase,” he confesses. He then proceeds to pause dramatically, cough into his fist to clear his throat, and shoot Louis a cheeky smirk before continuing with, “ _Je suis allé au cinéma avec mes copains et ma famille._ ” 

 _Jesus_. Louis is a goner. Not only is this boy sexy as fuck, but he’s clearly a colossal dork as well. Which is the best combination as far as Louis is concerned. “Absolutely incredible,” he marvels, in quiet awe of the quirky, green-eyed, parachute-wearing enigma of a boy in front of him. 

Harry positively glows at the praise. “Do you speak French, Louis?” 

Now it’s Louis’ turn to shrug. He decidedly does _not_ mention that the only French he knows is thanks to that _Lady Marmalade_ song from _Moulin Rouge_. Now is probably not the time to ask Harry to come to bed with him. “ _Un peu_ ,” he says, raising his hand to eye level and pinching his thumb and forefinger just barely apart for emphasis. 

Just when Louis thinks he can’t possibly be any more smitten, the universe apparently sees fit to prove him wrong. Harry lowers his hood and tugs off his beanie, revealing a head full of dark curls. They’re about chin length and still somehow manage to appear bouncy despite being drenched with canal water. Voodoo magic, Louis is sure of it.

Harry shakes them out in a manner not unlike a wet dog, and gives a sheepish grin when he notices the water droplets he had inadvertently sent flying in Louis’ direction. “Oops?” He murmurs with a blush. “Sorry!”

Louis has to laugh at that. He literally just catapulted this kid into a canal, and here he is apologizing to Louis over a couple drops of water. _Amazing_.

“You’re apologizing to me?” Louis sputters, incredulous. Enraptured. _Fuck, he’s already hooked_. “Mate, thanks to me, you look like a proper drowned rat.”

 _Oh shit_. Smooth, Tommo, real smooth, Louis silently berates himself. Clearly comparing this fit, lovely, absolute darling of a boy to a waterlogged rodent is the surest way to win his heart.

“But, like, an attractive one!” He corrects awkwardly, a little desperate. _God_ , why is he such a fucking mess?

The grin Harry gives him is teasing, he’s obviously taking the piss again, but Louis can’t help but to feel mortified. This whole incident is such a disaster. _Louis_ is such a disaster.

“You know, I’ve heard frog before, but never rat. That’s a new one for me.”

Louis just stares at him obtusely, not understanding in the slightest what Harry is on about. He’s about to— _politely_ —say just that, when Harry takes pity on him and elaborates.

“My sister, Gemma, she like… _always_ tells me I look like a frog when I smile. She’s even got my mates saying it now too. Proper menace, she is,” he explains in a slow, meandering drawl.

His voice is unlike anything Louis’s ever had the pleasure of hearing before – unnaturally deep and incredibly smooth as his words drip from his obscene lips like honey. _Fucking hell_ , that’s a visual Louis certainly doesn’t need at the moment.

“So I’m used to that,” Harry goes on to explain, “but like, I don’t think anyone’s ever compared me to a rat before?” He tilts his head to the side, a tiny crease forming between his brows as he contemplates. It’s unfairly adorable.

Louis squeezes his eyes shut and desperately wishes that the rain would melt him right into the pavement. “I am literally _so_ sorry.”

“Oh, it’s fine! I’m not offended. Rats are actually super interesting! Did you know they can laugh?"

Louis did _not_ know that.

“Well, I mean, obviously it sounds more like a squeak, or, like, a high-pitched chirping? But I read this research study about how they live in communities and can even experience what’s called social joy. Isn’t that nice?”

Harry giggles cutely, and Louis—well he’s quite ready to propose marriage if he’s honest.

“Oh! And a group of rats is called a ‘mischief.’”

Louis opens his mouth to say something; he’s not entirely sure what at this point, because Harry, apparently, has rendered him speechless, but Harry keeps right on babbling so it’s a moot point anyway.

“…And I know a lot of people don’t really like them, or are afraid of them or whatever, but I think that’s just because they’re misunderstood creatures y’know? I actually think they’re kind of cute.”

 _Of course_ he thinks that.

“So, yeah.” Harry shrugs and lets his hands drop to his sides with an audible, wet smack. “The point is I’m not, like, offended or anything by you comparing me to one.”

Harry has to be the purest, most endearing boy in existence, to have spent the last few minutes giving an impassioned speech in the defense of rats (which he sees as poor, misunderstood rodents) and Louis— _god help him_ —is utterly _besotted_.

Thankfully, before he can say or do any more ridiculous things (like apologize _again_ or actually propose because _hello, soulmates!)_ Harry’s hand darts out lightning quick and wraps around Louis’ ankle, his fingertips gently curling over the fine bone structure. He traces his thumb over the shape of the triangle inked into the skin there, exposed from the way Louis has cuffed his skinny jeans. A small smile creeps over his face as he watches the motion of his finger rubbing back and forth.

“I like your tattoo,” he says sincerely, displaying the kind of wholehearted, wide-eyed earnestness that would have most people scoffing.

Not Louis.

Louis— _well_ , he feels more like choking if he’s being honest. Who knew ankles could be an erogenous zone? Louis hadn’t, that’s for sure. At least, not until now…

“Thank you,” he whispers, afraid to disturb the fragility of the moment, the startling intimacy of such a simple, innocent act.

Harry seeks out Louis’ eyes, looking up from underneath his wet, rain-clumped lashes as if to check for permission. Louis mirrors Harry’s timid smile to express his consent, and Harry’s long, elegant fingers continue to caress his skin.

Louis’ eyes are drawn once again to the varnish on his nails. The pale hue mimics the blush high on his cheeks and complements his skin tone beautifully. He gets lost in the sensation, caught up in a rush of affection and the giddy, nervous-excitement that always comes with a new crush.

Perhaps “crush” is too juvenile a term to describe what’s occurring between them, one not big enough to encompass the sheer overwhelming magnitude of what Louis is feeling. He barely knows Harry, but he already fancies him quite a lot. All joking about soulmates aside, he can legitimately see the two of them cultivating something real between them, and if the butterflies that are already furiously flapping away in his stomach are any indication, he doesn’t think it would take much at all to have him falling head over heels in proper love.

Caught up as he is in his romantic ponderings and the way Harry’s touch is igniting his skin with every tender brush of his fingertips, Louis momentarily forgets the world around them. It’s not until the wind picks up and causes him to shiver violently that he remembers their current circumstances, and how contracting matching bouts of pneumonia might not be the most romantic prospect for his and Harry’s first date.

Harry, presumably having thoughts of a similar nature, releases Louis’ ankle with a shiver of his own. He snatches his sodden beanie off the pavement and begins to wring it out, looking just about as pitiful as can be as he pouts at the now severely misshapen knit fabric. He emits a sound that’s a cross between a giggle and a sigh, as it’s both incredulous and resigned, like he can’t quite believe the ridiculous situation he’s found himself in but has accepted it none the less and decided to make the most of it.

He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling his wet curls, and looks up at Louis with a hopeful glint in his eyes. “So,” he says, “how about that cuppa?”

<<>>

Standing beneath the awning outside _The French Press_ with Harry’s bicycle and Louis’ demon skateboard leaning up against the ivy-covered brick of the terrace, Louis quickly realizes their predicament. Harry is clearly too waterlogged to even consider going inside. He’s positively _dripping_. Even so, his windbreaker still makes these little swishing noises when he moves, and, _fuck_ , it’s really bloody cute.

“Right, so I’ll just—” Louis thumbs over his shoulder, indicating the queue inside. “Because you’re very, um…” he gestures vaguely towards Harry’s soaked attire, trying not to let his eyes linger too long on the way the material clings to Harry’s body, highlighting his incredible physique. 

“Wet?” Harry finishes, seeming to relish Louis’ distress over his sodden state. 

Louis gulps so loudly it will be a miracle if Harry doesn’t hear it, even over the soft pitter-patter of rain against the metal awning overhead. 

“So…tea?” 

“Right,” Harry glances at the chalkboard easel that’s set up next to the front door of the shop, scrunching his nose, flexing his jaw, and squinting adorably as he reads over the day’s specials printed across it in jaunty script. “Erm…I’ll have the kiwi hibiscus one, please.” 

“The _what_?” Louis sputters, turning to face Harry fully with his hands on his hips. 

“Kiwi hibiscus?” Harry giggles, bringing his hand up to his lips and tugging at them with his thumb and forefinger. If he’s trying to distract Louis…well, _damn it,_ it’s working. 

Still, he has to maintain some shred of dignity. He can’t let Harry win him over that easily. They are talking about tea after all, with fruit and _flowers_ in it. What an abomination. 

“You will do no such thing,” he says with conviction. It's _tea_ , not potpurri! Louis has _standards_. He takes his tea very seriously – splash of milk, no sugar, like a proper Englishman. 

Harry simply bats his eye lashes in what has to be a practiced manner, pushing his full lips out in a pout like the little minx that he obviously is. It’s a low blow, is what it is, utterly and completely unfair. Harry plays to win. 

Louis, for all his bluster and firmly held opinions on the matter, is not immune to Harry’s distraction techniques. Curse his wide, innocent eyes. Damn his beautiful, _beautiful_ mouth.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Louis mutters under his breath. “I suppose you want sugar in it too.”

“What?” Harry laughs, leaning closer, one eyebrow cocked in amusement.

Louis dismisses him with a flippant wave of his hand. The knowing smirk Harry is sporting is too much for him to handle. Louis is only human, he knows when to admit defeat.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, a little petulant at being bested by a boy who’s wearing the primary color wheel in jacket form. He turns away, intending to go order their drinks, when Harry’s voice stops him.

“Hey, Louis?” He calls out.

Louis is not fooled one bit by the innocent inflection to his tone. It’s obviously contrived. He’s taking the piss, and he’s enjoying it. _The fucking cheek on this one_ , Louis thinks, _honestly_. 

“Hmm?”

“Two sugars please.” Harry says, and winks. _Winks!_

“Have mercy,” Louis mutters, the sound of Harry’s muffled laughter following him into the café.

He smiles despite himself, secretly pleased at their flirty, teasing banter. It only broadens when he chances a glance at Harry through the window at the front of the shop and finds him looking down at his lap, a matching grin painted across his face. Louis doesn’t stop smiling the whole time he waits in the queue.

<<>>

He returns a few minutes later, setting Harry’s ridiculous excuse for tea down in front of him with a flourish and sliding into the vacant seat on the other side of the table with his own (much more sensible) cuppa.

Harry reaches over and covers Louis’ hand with his, stilling it before he has a chance to lift his cup to take the first sip. “Thank you,” he says with startling sincerity, his eye contact unwavering and intense.

“Don’t know why you bothered with sugar,” Louis mumbles as Harry begins to rub his thumb back and forth over Louis’ knuckles, mimicking the action from earlier when he traced his ankle tattoo. “Sweet enough already, aren’t you?”

Harry’s answering smile is so saccharine it does indeed put his ridiculous beverage to shame.

<<>>

Over the course of an hour, Louis and Harry get to know each other and settle into a comfortable, easy banter, Louis’ initial nerves having long since ebbed at the realization that Harry—contrary to what his insane good looks might suggest—is only human. He’s just a boy, and a really, really dorky one at that. He has terrible taste in tea and a ridiculous honking goose laugh, and his sense of humor consists almost entirely of dad jokes and horrible puns as far as Louis can tell. 

And it’s just—Louis has a type, see. He always goes completely gaga for nice eyes, curly hair, and a pair of Bambi legs, and Harry is a classic triple threat by those standards, but he’s so much more than that too. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t take himself too seriously. He seems care free and _fun_. He’s unapologetic about his quirkiness. Where most people would worry about blending in, Harry seems wholly unbothered about how much he stands out, with an aura around him brighter than that stupid neon windbreaker of his. He’s kind and gentle and his listening skills are honestly swoon-worthy. 

They meander through the typical get-to-know-you topics, covering everything from their courses of study to hobbies and interests to family history and childhood memories. Harry remains completely focused and attentive to Louis’ every word regardless of the topic of conversation, whether Louis is telling an anecdote about his younger siblings or ranting about  _Game of Thrones_ , and his eyes split their time between Louis’ eyes and mouth – watching as his lips move (and seeming particularly keen on the way Louis uses his tongue to play with his piercing). It makes Louis realize what a gift it is to carry on a conversation with someone who not only allows you to voice your thoughts and opinions without judgment, but who genuinely, seriously _wants_ to hear them. 

They’re in the midst of a very intellectually stimulating discussion about toxic masculinity, a topic Louis is quite passionate about (as is Harry, to absolutely no one’s surprise), when it finally happens.

All the warning Louis gets is the sound of Harry’s metal chair scraping against the pavement, and then he has a lap full of soaking wet boy. His noodle limbs are absolutely everywhere (Louis narrowly avoids a knee to the bollocks) and his hair is in Louis’ mouth – it’s _perfect_. Harry can invade Louis’ space whenever he wants.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, looking for all intents and purposes like he’s about to explode with something. Louis _really_ hopes it’s the urge to kiss him, because he’s feeling the same pull himself. Has been since the moment he dragged Harry out of the canal if he’s being honest.

“Hello,” he replies – quiet, hopeful.

He’s never fully understood the term “sharing breath” before, but he gets it now. And fuck if it isn’t the most intimate thing he’s ever experienced – Harry close enough to touch, to kiss, but the two of them simply breathing together instead, eyes locked, gazes tender and assessing.

“Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your eyes are?” Harry wonders aloud, tilting his head to the side as if this action will allow him to better study Louis’ features.

Louis opens his mouth to respond, or possibly just because he’s in shock. Either way, Harry continues speaking before he has the chance to find out.

“What am I saying?” He laughs. “Or course they have. Surely.”

Louis is at a loss – words, breath, sanity, it’s all escaping him at the moment. He coughs and tentatively fits his hands to the dip of Harry’s waist, steadying him in his lap as Harry shifts around to get comfortable, teetering precariously. They’ve had enough accidents for one day, no need to add falling out of a chair together to the mix.

“I, erm,” he falters, words coming slow while he attempts to regain control of his mental faculties. Gradually, his ability to speak trickles back in. “I may have gotten a compliment or two on them in the past.”

“You’re being modest,” Harry accuses.

Louis fiddles with his lip ring, a nervous habit, and shrugs when Harry continues to look at him, not really knowing how to respond. “They’re just eyes.”

“They’re _so_ not.”

“Well, I mean, have you seen _yours_?” Louis then launches into a rousing monologue detailing the many attributes of Harry’s eyes. It could be an epic ode the likes of which classic poetry and modern love songs could never hope to measure up to, or it very well could be the most incomprehensible, albeit impassioned, bull shit he’s ever spouted. Judging by the fact that Harry chooses to shut him up with his _mouth_ , he’s leaning towards it being closer to the former.

It’s sort of awkward at first, seeing as Louis had literally been mid-sentence, his mouth open and everything, when Harry had assaulted him with his lips, but they soon relax into it. Harry coaxes Louis to close his gaping mouth a little by gently seizing Louis’ lower lip and sucking at it with light, exquisite pressure.

It progresses quickly, Harry devouring Louis’ mouth in the most tender way, killing him softly as he barely brushes their lips together—the kiss all breath—then moves on to sweet, imploring little nibbles, encouraging Louis to kiss back. It strikes the perfect balance of teasing and playful and soft and sweet. It’s just an extension of the conversation that has been flowing between them so effortlessly, another layer of getting to know each other.

In addition to the plethora of delightfully random and endearing facts Louis has learned about Harry over the course of their time together, he now knows what Harry’s mouth tastes like, knows the weight and shape of him in his arms, knows the hitching pattern of his breathing and the sounds he makes when he’s being thoroughly, intimately kissed. _That_ is knowledge Louis won’t soon forget. It merely heightens his curiosity, awakens that part of him that always thirsts for more, and he longs to continue pursuing Harry until he has him memorized. He’s soft to the touch, sweet on Louis’ lips, and it feels a lot like love.

Admittedly, he doesn’t yet know Harry well enough to label what he’s currently feeling as proper love. He knows love is a choice as much as it is a feeling, one that comes with time, commitment, and mutual respect, but the potential is there. Louis can feel it in his fingertips, in the beat of his heart.

He wants to know Harry, wants him to monopolize all of his time. He wants the chance to fall in love with him. He may very well be half way there. But he’ll take his time, because Harry deserves that. He deserves the romance and the courting and the slow realization that his world is being turned upside down by another human in the most wonderful, intimate way. He deserves to be cherished and adored, and Louis doesn’t mean to brag, but he’s very good at loving people. He’s had a lot of practice in his life. Coming from a big family, he’s been fortunate enough to be surrounded by love from a very young age, and that love only seems to keep growing and extending out to encompass his friends as well.

He’s had a few relationships, but none of them lasted the way he hoped they would, none of them had the depth of love he always dreamed about and longed for. He’s suddenly grateful for that though, because all that love he’s been storing up inside of him…he wants to give it to Harry. That thought should be absurd, it should _scare_ him. It doesn’t.

Their lips part, and Harry’s breath hitches with a soft gasp, his gaze fixed on a point beyond Louis’ shoulder.

A smile spreads across Louis’ face, slow and honey sweet like an indulgence. “What?” He asks, mouth already feeling stretched by the width of his grin.

“There’s...” Harry clears his throat, shakes his head with a disbelieving wisp of a laugh, and offers a shy, warm smile of his own. “Just there, it’s a rainbow. Looks like it’s hanging right over your head.”

Louis doesn’t feel the immediate urge to look. The brightness of Harry’s wind breaker, the high color in his cheeks, florid with his blush, the serene oceanic tones in his eyes, the soft lavender tinged skin just beneath them that only serves to make them look even more green – he’s a rainbow in his own right.

“Beautiful,” Louis whispers, gaze fixed on Harry.

“You’re not even looking,” Harry admonishes with a duck of his head and a playful nudge to Louis’ chest.

Louis shrugs, stubborn. Giddy with it. “I’m looking at exactly what I want to be looking at.”

Harry gapes at him for a moment, aghast. It feels like an accomplishment, and it would be a lie for Louis to say he isn’t reveling in it. After the countless times Harry has rendered him speechless since their meeting, it’s nice to know he’s capable of doing the same to Harry.

“You know,” Harry drawls out cheekily, “I don’t usually fall for boys on the first date, let alone before we’ve even properly gone out, but, well,” he pauses to give a little shrug, scrunching his nose up as he looks at Louis, “You sort of tripped me.”

“To be fair, you nearly knocked me on me arse first. It’s not my fault your balance is inferior.”

Harry gives him an affronted squeal and playfully knocks his fist into Louis’ arm. He softens the blow by slowly trailing his knuckles over the swell of Louis’ bicep, easily discernible thanks to the clingy, wet fabric of his hoodie.

“That’s hardly comparable, Lou!” Harry protests. _Lou_. “You attacked me with your skateboard,” he teases, poking an accusing (and gorgeously lovely) finger at Louis’ chest.

“You attacked me with your...face!”

“My _face_?” Harry questions, amused and overly smug. Louis is annoyed by how hot he makes it look, how he wears that infuriating expression so well.

“Yeah, your face! Do you not own a mirror or something? You’re like…aggressively attractive.”

Harry tips his head back, his now familiar loud, honking laugh erupting from his lips. “I wasn’t aware attractiveness could be aggressive.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t aware people were allowed to look like _that_ …” Louis says, gesturing between Harry’s face and his body, the undeniable perfection of it all. “And yet, here you are.”

“You are too, y’know? You’re aggressively attractive. Violently beautiful.”

Louis ducks his head, his fringe falling into his eyes as he tries to hide the blush he’s surely sporting. “Quite the pair then, aren’t we?”

“Dream team, I’d say.”

“I think disaster duo is more fitting considering how we met.”

“A _beautiful_ disaster,” Harry emphasizes.

“A train wreck, honestly.”

“Hot mess express!”

Louis looks at Harry, their eyes lock, and the whole world just seems to fade away. “I’ll take it,” he whispers.

This time, when Harry kisses him, Louis sees it coming from a mile away.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this ridiculous little story! I hope it made you smile :)
> 
> Fic post [here](https://beau-soleil-louis.tumblr.com/post/185240158096/i-think-im-falling-im-falling-for-you-by) if you’d like to share!


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